Exinsistent

Catapults graze my eyes eagerly awaiting new disguises:
disgusting digestions spewed as excuses and your black tongue,
smudged face, leaking white jelly balls tell me the rest-
soft skin hard mind.
Mints strewn on the floor.
Where was I? Where am I? When?
Sensations fizzle out at my stomach and I become a nun,
pain in my umbilical noose reminding me of the void that lies
beyond. Cavernous chasm of my insides, growing- red- pulsates alone.
Swirling patterns on the sheets mock me and imprison strangers
flickering on and off.
On and off. Buttons pressed with no consequence.
Swung from tree to vomiting tree with no end in sight and rope burn
and matches striking themselves over and over on my thighs,
which wave in the breeze like great white flags on ship's masts.
White surrender leaking and salt water overflowing onto the deck
drowning even the stowaways.
Water, air, soil still seem empty to the corpses without worms.

Tentacle snoozes

My lovely friend ranting badger has made a beautiful illustration for 'Lullaby' (below) which she posted on her blog ^.^ Yay!

What a nice blip in an otherwise vapid day. I have spent it drifting in and out of sleep, barely able to read. It's pathetic of me to shut myself down. I am usually good at putting a bright face on the sick. Sleeping is just easier.

Lullaby

Dull thuds on stubble carpeted surfaces serve to wreck
tongue and intestines, girls. Subjects and imaginary sensations.
Silent rippling walls talk reams of fish
and I can smell it nearby.

Rough hot sheets in black voids consume nothing but stomach
walls acid villi, sheets that lift and scream into shapes
and monstrous mouths with monstrous tales to bring convicts to death.

Sick hauntings asphyxiate themselves on my viscous eyeballs,
mute fumblings rustling at the back of both of our thoughts-
pillow screams emptied into troughs.

Vile consciousness consuming.

Blacklipsonamissioninthedark (short story version)

Sigh. Excuse me, madam; excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma. I have been drowning cherries since 1911. I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop.
To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that’s where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I will stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.

Quick Fictions

I have cut down my Black lips on a mission in the dark 'story' (it's prose- it counts as a story, right?) and I'm entering it in a short story competition at my uni- I'll post the truncated version. I hope I win something! Maybe something banoffee-ish...

Dormantra

Chanting murmurs flutter onto your wide mouth,
open grass, open grass,
plunged dark and fucked daybreak skittering,
careening without relief.
Open grass, swallow me whole-
shudders and judders conscious awake and sharp heavy shocks
to the bones until they break and weighing pink light
on scales in warehouses telling boxes they're tinier than most inside houses
and shrieking in the beating eyelid, the jumping vein leaps to attention
emptying the water from your heavy head, dead head.
You give it to me. Scratches make dark glitter on the lilacs.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
Suck you down, swallow seedlings, swallow bright light noise
breaking capillaries at the edge of your skin needing entrances.
Acid rushing through the very top layer- dead skin, head skin- shocking nerves
into feeling pricked loss. White water, white blood, noticing pink curves
and burning wood. Suffering stifled in duvetquilts, pulled to the nose
and sniffed hard for comfort, killing dustmites, feeling guilt.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
You know I'll never come back again.

Deviendroid

Lies of and not of omission dot your head
plaits of straw leaking lies from technology,
wittling away wooden poles into totem
frightening me.
Elements of comedy pigment your face and speak
drones.
Lonely children fuck in the night.
Each time I try to leave nothing for you to take,
each time, leeches edge back towards my cervix
and cling, waiting.
Baise-moi was untrue, for me,
and I'm all that matters, here.
Empty black empty red the colours mix and mend
when all that's left is empty paint empty blood.
Jolted awake,
I stare at stippled ceilings listening to pipes hissing
whilst beside me you hum like a machine
churning.
[...]
They twist and turn faces away, folding neck skin,
pursing lips and crunching eyelids
to avoid
touching.

A warning

Next approaches: and empty poem, followed by a full one. Read each with due caution and suspension of disbelief.

Black Lips on a Mission in the Dark

Sigh. Excuse me, Madam, excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma.
I have been drowning cherries since 1911.
I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand, comma, about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, um, comma, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce, point of our repertoire here tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, comma, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, rounded shining skins, bloated, reacting in no way at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond. Quagmire, gloam and false lights. That's all. Their single, comma, eyes, on stalks or amputated. Either way they, comma, see.
And therefore your point would, sigh, be, comma, what exactly?
Well, stunted, that's what it is.
Exactly. You're talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don't, comma, condemn me. You are not even in the rabbit hole. You are, comma, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, comma, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, comma, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, comma, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, comma, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that's where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I need to stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Comma, sigh. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
... Did it work?
No, no questions! It certainly worked. Where was I? Ah yes, 1911. And cherries. Many cherries. There is no question as to whether there have been too many cherries because, comma, all I can see is, sigh, cherries.

Hill

There is no antidote like the one served on a silver platter-
there is no excellent feat, but to hear feet patter next to glass,
teetering. Gently breaking, softly smashing and reaching to strain harder
and harder, and harder, all the while draining the energy
remaining at a loss for breath and lexical relief- skin-
rolls aren't a problem now but ripples breaking the water
the ice like shards of honourable discussion around tables that can't
won't hold up under the weight of these false legs,
spread open to let communication in and receiving only static.

My head is a blur now. And you're shaking it roughly,
cerberus people dance lightshows beyond peripherals,
creating internal monologues that spout cracked tin cans,
wailing through the silent air and colliding with a screech.
How long can I keep up this tense before you all notice that it's a technique?
Before I notice that living in the present gifted present just
isn't it. It won't fight, won't vomit or spit like I'm so desperate for it to do.
Where is my washing machine now?

Icicle sword

I'm back at Sussex, away from stifling home. There is so much snow here.
I have recently been trying to work out, instead of how many times I have been lied to, just how many times I have been told the truth? Enormous chunks of life turning out to be farcical.
I also need to pick a couple of these poems to read out at Floetics- I am going to FORCE myself!